


What You Want to Be

by PreseaMoon



Category: Durarara!!
Genre: Character Study, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-07
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2020-01-06 13:07:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18389042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PreseaMoon/pseuds/PreseaMoon
Summary: To Masaomi, at that time, the otherworldliness of nighttime Tokyo was enchanting. It's not enchanting anymore. The only thing it does now is make him feel like the fool he is.





	What You Want to Be

**Author's Note:**

> this was going to be longer, since there are some ideas presented i want to explore further. also some other related ideas. but i am rusty, so let's pace ourselves maybe
> 
> realized after writing that when they say they grew up in Saitama i have no idea if City or Prefecture is being referred to. thinking. Instinct is not City but??

When Masaomi was growing up in Saitama one of his favorite pastimes was wandering the streets and woods, especially during night. Filtered by the moon’s glow his hometown took on a muted quality that distorted the livelihood he knew during the day. Saitama isn’t Tokyo, but it’s not the sticks, either. Things didn’t settle down until after sunset. Tourists stuck out more than they did during the day and familiar stores melted into grey, obscured by colored lights that didn’t show themselves under the sun’s rays.

For Masaomi, that world was like stumbling into an alternate dimension by mistake. It was everything he knew, but slightly off. Shadows in the woods made bark into monstrous faces with limbs that could reach forever in the dark. Alleyway shortcuts became unexplored caves. To other kids, this imperfect layering was unnerving, but to Masaomi it was thrilling. That, anyway, is what he attributed the absence of other kids his age to. Only Mikado, who had a timid nature, could be swayed to join him on his nightly escapades, and only every now and then.

That what he was doing might be dangerous never occurred to him. Adults would tell him to head home soon, but he never related it to his being out late. Sometimes older kids would try to intimidate him, leaving him to flee deeper into the woods or over the nearest fence, but that happened during the day too.

Nothing ever happened to him. His parents never tried to stop him, never commented, so he carried on without thinking much of it.

Consequently, there was no reason to change his habits when he moved to Tokyo.

If anything the relocation reinforced them. He wanted to know Ikebukuro just as well as he knew Saitama. More than that, he wanted to know the whole of Toshima—the whole of Tokyo, heedless of how unrealistic that notion was. As a boy entering middle school it didn’t feel absurd at all. 

He ventured out on weekends and weeknights alike, going as far as his legs and money would take him, getting lost and finding his way back home through whatever means available. By accident he would end up in Shinjuku or Nakano, Itabashi, once deep into Shibuya, but that was exciting and he welcomed the adventure. If he didn’t make it back home until morning his parents were always understanding if he couldn’t manage school that day.

If Saitama at night was an alternate dimension, then Tokyo at night was the day inverted. It was noisy and bright, with stores and groups that didn’t exist during the day. No one paid him any mind as he’d weave through the crowds. His presence alone meant he belonged. These things gave nighttime Tokyo a distinct consistency, like it could and did exist separate from daytime Tokyo.

To Masaomi, at that time, it was enchanting.

It’s not enchanting anymore.

He wants to kick himself for ever thinking it was, but that’s what naivety is, isn’t it? To look into pitch black and take the gleaming promises at face value. To see the danger, the weapons and threats, as playground games. There wasn’t any way for him to know that hardship is the only promise darkness is capable of following through on. Experience is the only reliable teacher for those lessons.

Just.

There’s supposed to be range, right? Some sliding scale of intensity or something. You don’t have to stick your entire hand in boiling water to know it will hurt. In fact, you don’t have to touch the water at all. Heat that’s spread to the handle, the rapid bubbling, a few stray flecks, the steam, these individually are enough to inform you to be mindful in how you handle the pot. You take bits of information, apply them to a greater whole, and make decisions with your best interests in mind.

In Masaomi’s case, he disregarded the rising temperature, and just as he was starting to realize how hot it was, the pot was dumped on his head.

His skin is flayed, charred, crumbling off wherever it’s not melting into his hollow bones. No one sees this, though, as he walks the streets of Ikebukuro. No one recognizes him. Without his colored scarf, without his matching cohorts, he is nothing more than an ordinary schoolboy. Or, that’s how he looks. It’s not what he is, and to be honest, he’s not sure how long it’s been that way.

Has it been since he met Izaya? Or from when he made the decision to rely on him as an advisor?

Maybe it was when he allowed his peers to gather around him and make him into a leader he didn’t ask to be.

Or was it the move to Tokyo? Is a simple change in environment enough to tear the identity from your skin?

Only now that he’s an inflated husk does he consider that maybe he was never ordinary to start with. That maybe, he doesn’t know what that word really means.

He supposes he’ll never know. Not anymore.

If something breaks it can’t return to how it was before. Even if every miniscule piece could be found and put together, the whole will be weaker than it was at the start. It won’t stand quite so steady. There will be jagged lines showcasing the story, acting as an easy to follow instruction manual.

Sooner or later the pieces will fall in on themselves, with or without help, like that’s the only way they’re supposed to be.

Maybe that is the case. It’s another thing Masaomi doesn’t know.

Since the idea comes from Izaya it might be a lie, but that man is dishonest more than anything else. He likes being right. He likes knowing you want to believe he’s lying, and that you’ll lie to yourself for the sake of that. He likes lying through what he doesn’t say.

For Masaomi, little of what Izaya’s said on this topic applies in a tangible way, so he doesn’t dwell on it much. He’s already broken. He doesn’t know how his fragments fit together. Or how much of him is left. Or if trying to force those remnants together has any value.

It’s not like ordinary will be visible if he stands atop a pile of rocks. If anything, it’ll only make him more keenly aware of how lacking he is.

What he should do, is go home and try to find some semblance of normalcy.

But what happened was not enough to break his habits.

His explorative wandering has been exchanged for a pretense of drifting. After years, Tokyo has become his home, and he always knows where he is and where he’s headed.

That is to say, when he made his way to Ikebukuro Station and found himself at the platform for the Fukutoshin Line, he knew exactly what the intention was. Even if he won’t acknowledge it.

There are plenty of things he likes in Shinjuku. Obviously he’s not going to avoid it for the rest of his life because of one person. That would be ridiculous.

Ridiculous, he knows this, yet he stands there and lets train after train pass by.

Either way he’s playing himself, really.

He leans against a column for an hour. Two hours. Hands stuffed into the pouch of his hoodie, fingers clutching his phone hard enough to leave indents on his skin. Since that happened he’s kept it on silent. In the past month he’s accumulated over a hundred messages and half as many missed calls. Whatever they want from him he can’t offer, though, and he might as well toss his phone to the tracks. He doesn’t need it anymore. 

Eventually, his legs go numb, and he slides to the ground. 

He feels like crying.

He won’t let himself, not here, but he wants to. The sensation is wrapped around his chest like a harness two sizes too small. There’s a lump in his throat and he’s choking on it, but it’s not unbearable except for the part where it forces his eyes to water.

Another train speeds by and comes to a gradual stop. Masaomi takes a breath, holds it, and releases as the doors swish open and floods of people exchange places. It’s after rush hour but just barely. The night isn’t close to slowing down, and it’s never a complete lull anyway. Not until the trains stop running for the night. That’s what he prefers about the subway.

“Hey, look who it is.”

In the subway, where things are loud and enclosed and crowded, it should be easy to miss things. Everyone has a destination in mind. There’s movement everywhere. The colors blend. The sounds blur. It’s like wading through white noise.

You shouldn’t be able to pick out an unexpected voice, or tell when a sentence is directed at you, specifically, among dozens. Even if it is right next to you.

That Masaomi can do both is unfair, and the way his body instantly reacts is a cruel joke.

He stiffens, breath going ragged, too fast. He presses his back to the column as hard as he can and clenches his jaw.

Izaya allows him only a handful of seconds to believe he’s passed him over. Then comes, “How are you, Masaomi-kun?”

A wave of revulsion washes over him at the sound of his name. He used to like it, that tone in his greeting. The lilt surrounding his name felt fond and welcoming. Now, it just makes him feel like a fool. 

He is a fool.

Masaomi presses the back of his hand to his mouth, then the heel to his forehead. Is his forehead too hot or is he imagining it? As his hand drops he leans his head back. By accident, their eyes meet for a split-second and Masaomi’s heart pounds heavier. It feels too big in his chest.

Masaomi shuts his eyes. All he can think is that he must be so obvious. “What are you doing here?”

“I had business in Ikebukuro.”

A train passes.

Masaomi looks straight ahead but can see Izaya’s legs from the corner of his eye. “Heiwajima-san is going to kill you one of these days.”

“Would you like that?” He asks it with a smile.

No.

A world without Izaya is...

Masaomi swallows. 

He doesn’t want to be this way.

“What about you? Were you on your way to visit me?”

Masaomi scoffs on reflex. “As if I’d…” he trails off, because he’s done just that more than a few times in the last six weeks. He clears his throat. “I’m. I’m going to Bunkyō.”

Izaya laughs at him. “Oh yeah?”

“Y-Yeah.”

Izaya watches with too much amusement as Masaomi squirms in anticipation of the follow up questions meant to corner him into admitting a lie. But it won’t be a lie if he actually goes. There’s plenty to do in Bunkyō. Probably. Finding a place to stay for the night shouldn’t be hard, either.

He doesn’t really want to, but he’ll do it. It’s fine.

It’d be better than staying here.

“Hmm, I wonder, though. Is that what you were doing?”

Masaomi tenses. He meets Izaya’s gaze like doing so is an act of defiance. This is a contest he can’t dream of winning, but it seems he just can’t help himself.

“You know, Masaomi-kun,” he says slowly, like he’s savoring the build up, “if you were planning to run away you can tell me.”

A startled “what” slips out before Masaomi can close his mouth on it. His eyes widen. His heart thunders in his chest. Somehow, just because Izaya has suggested it, part of him wonders if that’s exactly why he spends hours in the subway and even more hours away from home.

Izaya’s face contorts into a mimicry of sympathy. There isn’t any sound when he speaks and Masaomi should be grateful for that, but instead his mind races trying to string the shapes together. No matter how desperately he focuses, meaning won’t attach itself to any of the words he forms, and then...

_Saki-chan_

The name registers, and for a deceptive moment there’s nothing beyond basic comprehension. Then, in the next moment his heart comes to such an abrupt stop he chokes. Or maybe he’s about to vomit. From the strain in his muscles it feels like he might, like he already has. Ringing fills his ears; it makes him feel sicker, dizzy. When he tries to breathe he can’t. His throat is closing in on itself. 

He can’t even swallow.

He can’t breathe. He can’t hear.

He can’t see.

And then, suddenly, eventually, and for no reason at all, he can.

Izaya is right there. 

When and why did he get that close?

Masaomi flinches, but his body struggles to pull away as much as it wants to. The back of his neck is cold with sweat and his fingers ache around his phone. His head pulses with residual ringing.

“You okay?” There isn’t a trace of warmth in that flat question.

“Why are you asking?”

The amusement makes its way back into Izaya’s expression. “Why? Well, that should be obvious, right?”

“You don’t care if I’m okay.”

“No?”

Izaya smiles. It’s an invitation. Masaomi should know better. He does know better.

With his heart in his throat Masaomi repeats himself, but this time it hurts. His chest tightens and he has to lower his voice to ensure it doesn’t crack. This time it’s more to himself than Izaya, but he doesn’t mean for it to be.

“I love you, so of course I care.”

Masaomi loathes the way his stomach twists with exhilaration at those dispassionate words before free falling into nausea. The way Izaya is looking at him, it’s like Masaomi is behind glass at an aquarium. The attention is unpleasant, alien, but at the same time it’s captivating. Except, somehow, it’s not readily apparent who’s on which side of the glass.

Masaomi takes a short breath. “Stop it. No, you don’t. You don’t… either of those. So just stop.”

“But you love me. Don’t you, Masaomi-kun?”

“Stop.”

“Let’s suppose I am lying like you think. What am I trying to gain?”

“I don’t know. Why do you do anything? You’re fucked up.”

The following pause lasts long enough for Masaomi to think that was the wrong thing to say, but then Izaya laughs. “Is that what you think?” His eyes are glittering. “How interesting.” But he says it like it isn’t interesting at all.

Masaomi says “I think your train is here” when he really wants to say “go away.”

Izaya glances at the train pulling up, and then back to Masaomi with an almost predatory slant that lasts less than a second. He stands up. “Come on, then. Let’s go.”

Masaomi stares after him. “What?”

“I’m starving. Let’s get sushi. You can tell me all about your plans to not run away.”

“I…”

But Izaya is already walking away from him.

This is a type of normalcy, too. If it’s the only option within his reach does that make it worthwhile by default?

Is it bad if he wants to proceed as if it is?

Inside the train, Izaya is watching him. There is no expectation and no curiosity in his gaze, but it is unrelenting in its focus.

Masaomi gets to his feet and stumbles forward like his legs are stilts. The train door slides shut behind him. He wraps his hand around the horizontal rod perpendicular to the one Izaya holds. The car is full enough that they have to stand nearly pressed together.

If he had to choose, Masaomi would choose to lean into Izaya over a stranger every time.

It doesn’t feel like a bad thing, because Izaya isn’t dangerous in that way.

He looks up, and Izaya smiles. It’s not a smile that pretends to be kind, but Masaomi doesn’t need it to be.


End file.
